PS 




IMPRESSIONS 

CALIFORNIA AND THE WEST 




Class _i__^J55i_3 

Book _.___^^X_^ 



COPVRICHT DEPOSIT. 




MORNING, BOHEMIAN GROVE 
The summer encampment of tl^e 
Bohemian Club, San Francisco, 
where the famous woodland music 
dramas are produced. 



IMPRESSIONS 

CALIFORNIA AND THE WEST 



A TRIBUTE TO A LAND 
OF DEEDS AND SUNSHINE 



BY 

JAMES ROWBINS 



yjO., ^^"-t'"'l/t'VO j ^ 




PRIVATELY PRINTED 
SAN FRANCISCO, 1913 






COPYRIGHT, 19U 



MAR -5 1914 



mm 



SAN FRANCISCO. CALIFORNIA 



9^ 



0>CI,A36 28 4 



TO MY MOTHER 



CONTENTS 



Prologue 

A Winter's Greeting . 

The Trail 

Sunset 

Victory 

The Summit 

In Bohemia 

Waldweben 

YosEMiTE Jingles: 
Gates of Time 
Dream Music 
Glaube 
Tis-sa-ack . . 

The Builders 

Strife . . 

Two Homes Upon the Hill 

The Great White Way 

Retrospection 

Compensation 

Song of the Huntsman 

The Conquest 

The Friends I Love 

The Bluebird 

Whither 

By the Hand of Man . 

Homeward Bound 



9 
II 

12 

IS 

17 
19 

21 



23 

24 
25 

29 
31 

33 
34 
35 
37 
38 
40 

41 
45 
47 
49 
SI 
S3 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Bohemia Grove 

Golden Gate, San Francisco . 

An Ocean Wave 

Diana .... 

Mirror Lake, Yosemite 

Vernax Falls and Merced River 

Yosemite Valley 

Dunes of Sunset 

Sunset at Land's End 

Child at Play 

Lake in Golden Gate Park 



page 


Frontispiece ^ 


13 V 


26/ 


41-^ 


• 55^ 



PROLOGUE 



Wit/j all the arts, 'tis well that some 

Excel in color, form and tune. 

But humbler though the roll of rhyme. 

What universal tongues are loosed 

By simple words, that fain would paint 

Pen piBures on the Walls of Time. 

Ye blush Jor errors manifest; 

Yet every fledgling falls to earth 

Ere yet its pinions bear the test. 

But gaining strength, it stems the breath 

Of the western wind and the billowy tides. 

And high, triumphant, free, it rides 

Above the gathering storm. 




A WINTER'S GREETING 

When winter comes and the air is chill 
And flowers bloom no more in the dell, 
Nor summer breezes, soft and sweet 
Kiss the cool waters that lave our feet, 
Good bye! 

*Sing little bird with silver wing, 
Sing, till thy throat shall burst with song; 
Fly away to the topmost bough 
Joyously through the morning blue, 
I come. 

I've found a land that no winter knows, 
Where summer reigns and no chill wind blows, 
Where birds and bees fill the honeysuckle vine 
And rippling brooks flash the bright sunshine. 

Bright flowers grow on the green hillside 
And silver clouds o'er the forests ride; 
Where the luscious grape and the citrus grow 
And no blighting frost the rosebuds know. 

Come to her green slopes. 

Bathe in her waters clear. 
Gaze on her mountains, 

Drink in her pure air. 
Seek thy rest in her 

Warm, sweet bosom fair. 

Oh! Come, Oh! Come. 

•Words and music dreamed by the author. 
11 



THE TRAIL 



THE TRAIL 



Yo ho! for the trail, ye maids and men 
From the city and countryside 

For the clatter of hoofs up through the glen 
You can hear from far and wide. 

Come, don your honest garments brown, 
Take a hitch for the steepest climb; 

No jewels rare, nor feathery down, 
Nor trappings gay will rhyme. 

Only with cap and saddle-bag 

Fitted with modest needs 
To lighten the load of your trusty nag — 

We're away, we're away. 

With a yip and hooray 
To the top, ere the dawn of day. 



12 




SUNSET 

I stood in the Western Gateway, 

With the sunset's golden glow 
Tingeing the beautiful waters there, 

That sparkled far below. 
And from out to sea as far as eye 

Could pierce the radiant West, 
Came rolling back, like gathering storms 

Huge breakers' foaming crests. 

Aslant the brilliant sunset line. 

Bald mountains rise between 
All gaunt and grey and specter-like 

Against the fervent screen 
Of space beyond, eternal Night — 

So soon, with magic breath 
To spread its kind enfolding wings, 

God's creatures all, beneath. 

The glory of the sun has set; 

The golden goblet's rim 
Has turned to pearl resplendent 

With reflected gold within. 
The brilliant colored pall of Night 

Draws closer ere it pale 
Like richest crimson blushes hid 

Behind a maiden's veil. 

13 



SUNSET 



But the water grows blacker and blacker 

As the sunset fades away, 
And my heart sinks deeper and deeper 

At the thought of the dying day — 
At the thought of the glorious sunshine 

That found not its way within, 
At the thought of the wasted hours, 

Frivolity and sin. 

As the sun stooped down to the waters 

And sealed with its gorgeous hue 
The kiss of Faith for a morning 

As beautiful, as blue; 
So do thou, as devoutly worship 

By the shrine at Nature's door; 
For the half of Time is not worth it — 

The loss of that sunset hour. 

ScTRO Heights, February, 1912. 



14 




VICTORY 

Pile high, high, thou pitiless wave 

Over thy sea of foam — 
Onward, invincible, crest on crest, 
Ever insatiable, never at rest 

Till the wind shall drive thee home. 



Crouch low, low, thou swimmer brave, 

Breasting the treach'rous deep 
Tow'ring above thee, swirling below, 
Piercing the dark green breakers through 
As a diver takes the leap. 



Seaward, the deep black troughs engulf 

Even the staunchest sail. 
Well for the clipper that minds her helm, 
Well for the skipper that keeps her trim 

In the teeth of the rising gale. 



Landward, the pitiless breakers course 

Thund'rous along the strand 
Casting their frenzied foam on high, 
Blinding the faithful watch near by 
As he crouches on the sand. 

15 



VICTORY 



Yo ho! bold swimmer, harbor's at hand 
Sheltering snug in the encircling land, 
Breast thee the tide and ride thee the wave 
Saving thy strength 'gainst a watery grave 
Where breakers roar and the foam spews high 
And the screaming gull tells the storm is nigh. 

Strike, as thy strength shall last thee through 
Strike, as thy skill hath taught thee how — 
Here at thy topmost, there at ease, 
Now reaching out in the fresh'ning breeze. 
Mount thee strong on the last high crest 
And away! Courage, bold swimmer, 

'Tis won. 

The Beach in a Gale. 



16 



THE SUMMIT 



THE SUMMIT 



A mountain ranges high among the western hills. 
From my study window, clear enough defined 
'Gainst white fog bank, shimmering in the sun, 
I see it and the heart within me yearns 
To scale its heights, to Hft me clear 
Of all these mediocre clods of earth — 
This senseless plane of senseless deeds and things 
That we, not knowihg what we do, term Life. 

And strange enough that Life should seem so drear, 

So unromantic, of all things bereft 

That we do yearn for, till Life's springs, 

With bitter tears o'erflowed, becomes 

A desert waste — can it be so? 

Or do we lack a vision, omniscient 

In its source — a God endowed wisdom — 

That doth clothe each humble clod of earth 

In Nature's beauty — that we think vile. 

I set my face to the heights — 

With toiling steps through sinking sands and morass 

Bramble strewn, o'er rocks and fallen trees. 

Hemmed in by Circumstance, by Chance escaped 

To loftier levels — ah, one fleeting glimpse; 

How sweet a heart balm. What courage lends 

To flagging steps. Onward, onward, friend, 

Nor let thy gaze forsake the ultimate aim 

'Tis, given thee, thy duty — forswear it not. 

Impatiently I seek to pierce the gloom 

Of darkened forest; not one friendly ray 

Rewards my useless strivings toward the Light. 

I fail, I sink; within its cruel gaol. 

This mountain fastness binds me to itself 

Nor guidance lends, its darkened portals veiled. 

Ah! God, is this the spirit that I set me forth? 

Well, let it be — my flagon's depths, 

Once drained, will set me free. 

17 



THE SUMMIT 

A troubled dream — of ghastly precipice — 

Unwary footsteps near. The fatal step — 

The screams and clawings on the yielding air 

And then — 

A friendly twig scarce rooted on the ledge 

Looks up and spends its midget strength to stop 

The fall. A dream indeed, and yet 'twere true; 

'Twixt Life and Death, the smallest of God's creatures 

Often come — enough, faint heart, enough. 

Upon the lofty summit at last I stand. 

Be kind. Oh God, be kind — forgive. 

I see that which my streaming eyes may tell 

But not to halting language half express — 

The secret heart-grip — ah, the lovely pain 

Of fulfilled yearnings — now I see again. 

A vision comes to me long years denied. 

A vision of this topsy-turvy sphere 

Wherein doth all things claim reality. 

And of their former fancies now divest themselves. 

I see the essence of this Universe 

Expressed in every living thing and mute. 

No stone has turned upon the mountain top 

But by the hand of Him decreed, foretold. 

Its cosmic movements, not for human mind, 

May speak a mystic language; yet through 

Contemporary time it speaks our own 

And sounds the faint sweet rhythm of the spheres 

To ears attuned, to souls that rise, untrammelled, 

To the Heights. 

How beautiful doth all things then appear. 

Not even the shrinking flower escapes our eye. 

As in the scheme of things some flowers excel 

In brightness, some in fragrance, all possess 

Some spark of beauty. So all things 

That make of Nature, the substance and the form 

Appear to hold within, a spot of color bright 

To frame complete the universal canvas of my dreams. 

Tamalpais July, 1912. 

18 



IN BOHEMIA 



IN BOHEMIA 



Nay, thou knowest not Bohemia, not 
With all thy cursed ducats canst thou buy 
One stone within the mighty parapet 
Upreared by toiling hands now clasped 
In deep fraternal love — nor yet 
Canst hope, its sacred fastnesses to pierce 
Till Mammon's taint hath fled thee and thy hand 
Extendeth with thy heart to help to serve. 

No frigid form enslaves Bohemia's halls, 
No sterile phrase belies her greetings warm; 
No prowling wolves of selfishness, deceit 
Can steal within this magic circle lit 
With flaming swords that shall ever burn 
Till men shall solve the riddle of Fraternity. 

Know thou that but one master-key 
Rolls back the sacred portals of Bohemia — 
A key wrought in the forges of men's hearts 
Of fairest fibres, strong and then refined 
And polished on the buffers of men's minds. 

A gentle Muse sits at the temple gates 
And holds this key for all her devotees. 
And blest, indeed, is he whose kindred soul 
Finds opportunity in her quickening caress 
As, through the magic password of her grace, 
He enters fair Bohemia. 

BoHEMMN Club, San Francisco, 1913. 



19 



^ 




DIANA. iSy Haig Patigan 

Designed for The Atonement of 
Pan, Bohemian Grove play, 1913. 



WALDWEBEN 



WALDWEBEN 



A maze of pillared grandeur 

In the stillness of the night; 
A gentle hush as breathless 

As the pure and cold starlight 
That reaches from the mystic depths 

Of the empyrean above 
And casts the ghostly mantle 

Of the Eternal, Infinite. 

A shadowy dome encircling 

Its mighty pillared towers; 
A swaying pendent curtain merging 

All the peaceful hours. 
Only the giant arms of earth 

Uplifted unto heaven 
To span the magic distances 

Within these titan bowers. 

Dost thou hear the muted music 

Of this slumbrous forest glade 
With the ghostly moonlight wavering 

'Round the shadow that is made 
Where thou standest, bared to heaven, 

With thy inner soul transfixed 
By the potent mystic language 

Of this silent nebulous shade? 

Ye Titans of these sacred groves 
Raising to heaven thy mighty shafts 
Unbent by winds, unscathed by fire, 
Rooted fast in these earthen depths — 
Doth aeons spell thy span of life, 
And is thy heart of hearts, within 
This very rugged bark contained, 
A talisman of the birth of Time? 
I touch — and all my being thrills 
With the magic of the centuries. 

21 



WALDWEBEN 



Give me thy strength 

giant tree; 
Straight as thy shaft 

Let my vision be; 
Deep as thy roots 

Be my soul inspired 
Then may the drums of Time 

Roll on, roll on. 

Bohemian Grove, August, 1912. 



22 



THE GATES OF TIME 



YOSEMITE JINGLES 



THE GATES OF TIME 

A placid pool of limpid blue 

All roundabout enwreathed 
With a hundred colors of the dell 

And shades of varied hue. 

Or is't a magic mirrored screen 

Within whose crystal depths 
The heart of Nature seems revealed 

In blue and verdant green? 

What skillful hand that margin drew 
To bridge the nebulous space 

'Tween infinite depth and infinite height — 
Vast realms of limpid blue. 

Ah, could I cross the mystic line 

And gaze behind the veil 
Where Time meets Time and once again 

Dream music rings divine. 

Mirror Lake. 



y 



23 



DREAM MUSIC 



DREAM MUSIC 



Till yesterday, my eyes were blind 
With deep illusioned visions of the vale — 
That mystic vale of strength and peace 
That links today with dreadful aeons past. 

I wander through its moonlit mazes sweet 
With odors of the summer; purling streams 
Their gentle harmonies upraise, and oft 
The rustle of the pendent bough bespeaks 
The presence of some li\^ng, moving thing 
Disturbed in its slumbers — dreams perhaps 
Of yet another world — who knows? 

And still I gaze — 

Uplifted to the awful heights that seem 

The very walls of endless Time upreared, 

While softly, breathless, still, the silver light 

Steals with ever lengthening shadows through the vale. 



Oh, gentle shades of virgin night — 
Enfold me in thy silver-winged hours. 
Mine eyes are dim with gazing, and my soul, 
Fast fettered, yet borne strangely up, 
Would scale the ethereal heights and see 
Eternal wonder-worlds — would burst the bonds 
That tie me to this sordid mill of tears 
And soar upon the music of the spheres. 

Oh, that I might, on muted strings, enthral 

The wondrous music of this wondrous night 

And, high upon ascendent harmonies, 

My unleashed soul its winged flight pursue 

To pierce the ethereal shadows of the night 

And search the corners of infinitude, 

Borne ever on morn's golden shafts of Light. 



Stni softly, breathless, steals 

The ever lengthening shadows of the vale. 

YosEMTTE By Moonlight. 

24 



GLAUBE 



GLAUBE 



Listen to the merry river 
Rushing onward to the sea — 
How it laughs and how it tumbles, 
How it gurgles merrily. 

Rocky bed makes Httle hind'rance 
To its never ceasing flow — 
With a laugh it dances 'round them 
For it always seems to know 

That, whatever the obstruction, 
Rock or bank or fallen tree — 
By its twisting, wriggling, squirming. 
It can always get to sea. 



But sometimes this merry river 
Seems forgetful of its mood 
That today makes it delightful 
As the charm of field and wood. 

Then its soul is wild and frenzied; 
Then its lashing spume casts high 
In the madness of its plunging 
To the depths of sea and sky. 

'Tis the awful pack and pressure 
Of the snow-fields drained afar; 
'Tis the wild descent and impact 
Of the cascades mighty power. 

'Tis the wild rush down the canyon 
Now confined 'twixt cruel walls 
That has filled its soul with terror 
And dispelled the woodland calls. 

25 




VERNAL FALLS AND THE 

MERCED RIVER 

Yosemite Valley 



GLAUBE 



But the friendly sun of summer 
Gently smooths its troubled way, 
Tames its wild heart to the beating 
Of a peaceful slumbering day. 

Oh! the depths of human passion, 
Anguish, longings, hopes and tears; 
Would this summer sun could waken 
Sweet content for future years. 

Dost thou think this merry river 
Ever tires of ceaseless flow — 
Lashing, splashing, curling, purling 
Leaping far to pools below. 

Or that ever one doubt wakens. 
In its wild tumultous breast, 
That the evening of the lifetime 
Will bring Love and Peace and Rest. 

Merced River, August, 1912 



27 




YOSEMITE VALLEY IN SPRING- 
TIME 

The great peak of Tis-sa-ack 
(Half Dome), is just discernible 
above the fog bank. 



s 



TIS-SA-ACK 



TIS-SA-ACK 



Thou, Goddess of the riven hills — 

I gaze upon thy shrouded form, 

Thy temples bathed in the breath of the sea 

Thy feet bedewed with the tears of the land, 

What message bearest thou! 

Dost cover thy face for the deeds of men 
Or glories of thy people gone? 
And yet, with proud unbended head, 
Thou reignest. Goddess of the mystic vale. 
Unmindful of the winter blasts 
Or swollen torrents at thy feet. . 
Disdainful of the centuries, 
Yet always in thy regal grace 
Communing with thy worshippers 
In language of the lips of Time. 
Thou reignest still, O matchless one 
Chaste Goddess of the riven hills. 

Tb-sa-ack, Indian for Half Dome, Yosemite. 



29 




THE DUNES OF SUNSET 
San Francisco 



THE BUILDERS 



THE BUILDERS 



Along the trackless wastes 
Creep mystic shadows, golden tipped. 
As harbingers of night they sing 
Strange melodies oft sweetly dissonant 
With the warm impassioned heart-throbs 

Of the dying day. 

The serried dunes, 
O'er flecked with countless wind-born rivulets, 
Roll gently on from out the crimson west. 
Incessant movement marks their restless years. 
The immobile earth, entranced by the beauty 
Of the scene, reflects the rhythmic movement 
Of the wave, urged on by sea-born breezes 

Strength perfumed. 

Within these shadow worlds. 
The air seems redolent with mystery; 
Except for the murmur of the wind 
And roar of surf, no voice is heard; 
.; No living thing exists — no home of bird 

l,j^-.^ ^ Or beast, not even one tender blade of grass 
*^' To play its midget part within the great 

Symphonic choral of the spheres. 

The strings are hushed; 
No longer surge the golden passion-chords 
Of twilight glow. The darkHng labyrinth 
r Impends; only the pounding of the surf 

■ To break the gloom — that swells and dies again 

I Enmeshed in foam. 



31 



THE BUILDERS 



Mysterious silence — and yet 
I seem to hear the hammer blows of Time. 
Beneath my hand, the vibrant earth seems full 
With melody of wondrous strange portent — 
Before my straining eyes, there seem to pass 
In vague uncertain movement, visions rare 
Of a wondrous thing — a City Beautiful 
Upreared where last I saw but dreary wastes 
And wandering dunes. 

'Tis night. 
And through long eucalyptus shadows pale, 
The winter moon now threads its silvery way 
Engrossing all this slumbering wonder-world. 
This topsy-turvy clime all summer hued, 

With liquid diadem. 

Can this be true — 
This metamorphic change from virgin dunes 
To peaceful homes and gardens, flower-strewn; 
The terraced slopes that yield an ample vision 
Of the West, and all but hid in depths 
Of trellised vine and rose and poppies gold 
That seems to draw within their radiant cups 
The essence of a thousand golden sunsets? 

Ah! Enough of clanging wars and marts and men, 
Of seething mills, Hell's cauldrons, city's din. 
Could we sever from them all our few short years 
And shove them in the Past with all their tears, 
Would we not revel in the joys of sea and sky. 
Of hill and mountain-top where star-drops lie, 
Or drowse within our garden flowered deep. 
While Jime for cold Decembers hostage keeps. 
Tis then the strife of men and pelf is hushed — 
The Builder's work triumphant at the last. 

The Dunes of Sctnset, San Francisco, November, igi2. 

32 



STRIFE 



STRIFE 

TO THE SELFISH AND WILFUL PERVERTORS OF MEN'S MINDS 

With bristling mien and clenched fist 

He roareth up and down — 
Black hatred in his heart unleashed, 
The venom of a mind diseased 
That reapeth where 'tis sown; 
A thousand daggers raised behind, 
A thousand curses hurled afar, 
A thousand lies to warp the Truth 
Enough to fool the blind. 

Is there no citadel that's safe 

From all this mockery? 
Are Truth and Justice, Innocence, 
An upright life, a country's flag 

Naught else but carrion prey? 

Why rest ye in supine content 

With ravin stalking wild? 
Shall all the hands of Time estop. 
The busy wheels of Industry, 
And fertile fields be seared to waste 
All ruined by this bastard child — 
Sired by a monstrous Hate, 
Born in Evil's unloved dens, 
Reared in Desolation's grime 

And doomed to Strife? 



33 




TWO HOMES UPON THE HILL 

The one — a simple cottage home 
Deep set in the garden bloom 

No strident tone disturbs its peace 
Nor vulgar eye, nor profane lip. 

Avaunt! thou hovering spirit gloom 
Of Mammon's greed. 



The other — ah, but mark it well — 
Doth not its chaste and glistening front 
Shine brilliant in the sun. 



34 



THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

THOUGHTS ON HENNER's "mAGDALEN" 



I cannot think them all so vile — 

This vast bedizened crowd that throngs 

The blazing strand — these poor 

And painted creatures, lost of men 

And God except the one last bond 

Of conscious error, wrought by Fate, 

The purpose of her will fulfilled. 

Ye pity, yes and scorn perhaps 
With brow uplift and bated breath. 
But canst not give a helping hand. 
From bulging larder, not a crust 
Canst spare to save the final plunge 
To blackened depths, the knife, the shot. 

Perhaps thy heel once left imprint 
Upon the sacred ground thou feignest, 
Hypocrite! 



35 




a: 2 






RETROSPECTION 

RETROSPECTION 

FROM THE HILLTOPS AT SDTSTSET, GOLDEN GATE. 



Deep in the pitying bosom of the sea, 

Ebbs fast the glory of a dpng day. 

And on the giant battlements 

That guard these glowing portals of the night, 

Another niche appears, full chiseled, deep. 

How many fateful names enregistered 

In burning letters on that scroll of Time. 

But what of it — What matters that 
The chastened page be rudely blotted out 
By hands that ever faltered as they wrote; 
That ere the cruel ink was scarcely dry, 
Hot tears erased the shameful entry? 

Nay the thing has passed 

And deep within the glowing embers lies 

The substance — and the form 

Ethereal shapes assume that seem, withal, 

On golden pinions to have taken flight 

And vanished with the spirits of the night. 



37 



COMPENSATION 



COMPENSATION 



WHERE MORNING BESTS ACHIEVEMENT, THERE FIGHT I. 



Has the spice of Life, its savour lost 

Amid the reeking din 
And its pleasures turned to charnels 

Of dishonor, shame and sin? 

Has the fresh warm morning sunshine 
Of the hilltop lost its charm 

Or the restless surge of ocean 
Filled thy soul with deep alarm? 

Does the woodland's gentle calling 
Fail to lure thy weary way 

To its peaceful, friendly shadows 
At the cradle of the day? 



Then — work, till the sunbeams 

Slant across the sky, 
Till the task is fulfilled 

And the cool of evening's nigh. 

Work, till thy pulses 

Thrill to merry tunes 
With the royal blood of manhood 

Chanting magic runes. 

Work, though the glowering 

Clouds of failure pall 
With snarling hounds of discord 

Bent upon thy fall. 

38 



COMPENSATION 



Does the ocean heed the pebble 
Careless cast by wanton hand, 

Or the mountain fear the sandstorm 
Blown afar from desert land? 

Does the golden orbit waver 
In its endless, changeless way 

By the senseless exhortations 
Of the worshippers that pray? 

Or the petal, ere unfolding 
In the bosom of the Spring 

List the dreary wastes of Winter 
To fulfill its blossoming? 



Oh! the golden hours of hfetime 
TwLxt the pale of rest and play 

When a man works out his soul-force 
On the anvil of God's day. 

When the dross is stricken off him, 
When his arm is raised in might. 

When his heart is strong and humble 
And his eyes shine full with Light. 

Then his destiny rewards him; 

Then the clouds of black despair 
With a sudden evolution 

Quick dispel the anxious care. 

Stand aloof! ye clods of failure, 

Stand ye back and watch and pray 
That your sluggish veins may tingle 

Once again — as in olden day. 
That your freighted soul take courage, 

That your feeble hand find strength. 
That your eye may speak its freedom 

When the Conqueror comes your way. 

39 



SONG OF THE HUNTSMAN 



SONG OF THE HUNTSMAN 

Oh! the bird is on the wing, dear! 

He rose with the morning dew 
And speeds o'er downs and hills and towns 

To bear my love to you. 

Then fare him on his way, friends 

Nor strike not the cruel blow 
As he soars along on the wings of song 

And dips in the limpid glow. 

For his heart is as light as mine, dear 
And his song but a promise true 

That he'll search throughout the world, dear 
To bear my love to you. 



40 



THE CONQUEST 

There came to me one day, . un thought, 
A picture of two children fair; 

It stands before me as I write — 
A glimpse of two bright httle lives 
In lands far distant, where the sun 
Sinks down to sea, with gorgeous hue, 

Behind a bristUng coast. 



The broad Pacific lies before— 
A chained giant held in leash, 
And to the East a rugged range 
Of lofty peaks o'er-topped in silent 
Majesty — Mount Rainier — 
That stately pile so chastely crowned 
With everlasting snows. 



41 



THE CONQUEST 



At Christmas time the message came. 
With wond'rings, I cut the knot — 
That magic key of hopes and fears, 
And found — a bit of bristol board. 
But what dear memories aroused 
This simple hkeness of two friends 
So far away, yet near! 

A girl and boy I see at play 
Idling the golden hours through; 
No work nor care their lives enmesh, 
Except the pot of jam runs dry 
And finger exercises pall 
And seven to bed, and other dread things 
The bogey man invents. 

I met her first upon the stair. 
To her I was like other men 
From out the dreadful wilderness 
Of roaring marts and flaming fires, 
Of wheels and whistles, smoke and din, 
Of cabs and cars, and clanging bells. 
And ghouls and goblins. 

To her the tender years were yet 
Unspent; where life encircles 'round 
A simple home, with vines and trees 
And climbing roses, all too large 
To make a nosegay of. And then 
There was a cherry tree so high 
It almost touched the stars. 

Alas, what sad mistake I made; 
For now-a-days young men do need 
An introduction to a maid 
Before they have a right to plant 
Resounding kisses on the spot 
Reserved for others, especially 
When whiskers interfere. 

42 



THE CONQUEST 



In vain I pouted, coaxed, and prayed; 
The little maid would not unbend, 
Her big blue eyes would search me out 
From 'round her mother's sheltering chair, 
Or safely 'tween the table legs, 
She'd weigh me in her balance keen 
And always find me wanting. 

But soon I found a vantage-point, 
And hugged it close; for all is fair 
In love and war, and honorable my 
Intentions were. Tho' sad it was 
To have to play a trick so bold 
Upon a maid of tender years, 
She yielded to temptation. 

For love of gold 'twas brought her low, 
And, in one fateful moment, she 
Undid the latch Pandora spied 
When curiosity o'ercame 
Her maiden prudence and released 
A thousand devils. 'Twas, in short. 
Four shiny silver dollars. 

These sealed her doom, and I, 
Not slow to take advantage of 't. 
With ghoulish glee would drop them down 
First one, then two, then three, then four, 
Then one again and two, three, four. 
And one— but she did not perceive 
The foul trick nor trickster. 

The battle's won and we are friends, 
Fast friends; what difference the means 
Whereby 'twas done, so long as I 
May claim her love, and reign withal. 
Within her childish heart, as one 
Redeemed of faults, still manifest, 
But nevertheless redeemed. 

43 



THE CONQUEST 



And now her "bruwer" kisses her 
On that same spot and dries her tears 
When bears appear upon the stairs 
To growl at Httle Frances' fears 
And big black dogs come blustering up 
All mouths and teeth to eat her Jip 
And vines lay wait to trip her feet 
As she walks bravely down the street 
And bees buzz 'round her golden hair 
For honey-cups in flowers fair. 
A gallant knight to her must be 
And I would too could I be he. 
God bless 'em both, but you and I 
Must never, until years go by. 
Reveal the secret of the trick 
I turned — for 'twas just in the nick 
Of time to save me from defeat. 
And put my plans to full retreat; 
God grant she'll stay me true. 

Chicago, December 25, iqii. 



44 



THE FRIENDS I LOVE 



THE FRIENDS I LOVE 

I have a little book-stand near my bed 

To snatch a moment's pleasure from each night 

Before reluctant slumber bids me fold 

The wings of fancy 'till the morning breaks. 

Of all the precious volumes on my shelves, 
These little treasure-ships still hold the power 
To turn my face away from cares and fears 
And set my sails, full tilt, to slumber-land. 

For in the silent calm of midnight hours, 
When the soul of man is weary and forspent 
With battles and with strivings toward that end 
Pre-destined as the heritage of Fate, 

'Tis then the eyes strain upward to the dome 
Of Heaven for some faint gleam of friendly light, 
For some sweet drop of heavenly vintage poured 
By angels from the golden bowl of night. 

And then it is I turn me to my friends. 

Mute friends, all silent through the livelong day. 

But what a message do they bear to me 

When I can loose their tongues with friendly touch. 

Between the covers of these little books 
There's writ, in fiery letters, man's destiny. 
The gamut of emotion runs its course 
Fun, frolic, fancy, love, stark tragedy. 

Each pretty volume, silent, beckons me 
For special ministration to my mood, 
With fond caress I hand them gently down 
And turn the fingered pages, one by one. 

45 



THE FRIENDS I LOVE 



Ah! here June roses, sweet, do bloom and blow, 

And here, the fancies of some childish heart; 

There, the smooth turning of the wheel of rhyme 

And then again strange pictures from my book of dreams. 

Then to my heart of hearts straight go the shafts 
Of sweet impassioned utterance, till my tears 
Do blind me, as golden winged messengers 
From some far distant throne of radiant light. 

Tis then, oh then, I bow me humbly down 
In fervent worship at the jeweled shrine 
Of Genius, Art — call it what you will — 
Inspired thought, God-given, Man-despised. 

Grand harmonies, played upon the keys of Heaven 

That lift my very soul to outer spheres 

Of passion, rage, sweet ecstasy of tears 

And leave my soul refined and calm and mute. 

O thou, who dost scofif at tender words. 
And, cursing, spurn the hand that heals thy wounds, 
God give thee grace, that, through the impending gloom, 
Thy darkened eyes at last shall see the dawn. 

God grant that, by some wond'rous alchemy. 
Thy heart of hearts may guide thy erring feet 
And fling the portals wide for smiles and tears 
Ah! that were most beautiful, indeed. 

Chicago, iqii. 



46 



THE BLUEBIRD 



THE BLUEBIRD 

REFLECTIONS ON MAETERLINCK'S IMMORTAL DRAMA OF HAPPINESS 

Along the shiftings sands of Time 
By many founts, in many climes, 
I search for that one thing most dear 
The Wine of Joy, sweet ecstasy of tears. 

How oft, within my very grasp, 
It seemed to flutter, then to gasp 
Away its precious heart-throbs — still 
It lay — poor creature of my will. 

Is it the blighting touch of Care, 
Of Selfishness, untaught Desire, 
Of morbid cravings for the flower 
That withers in the passing hour? 

The rose that on the hillside grew, 
Blushing red in the morning dew. 
Withers and pales in the noon-day glare 
From the fervent heat, and the breathless air. 



Ah, cruel, that a hand of mine 
Should kill the thing it holds divine; 
That what my very soul doth crave 
Should vanish in my presence, save 
The perfume of sweet memory's flower 
That lingers as it pales, The hours. 

Of Time in anxious sands depart 

While, mumbling of Life and Soul and Heart, 

Do we, in stupid epigrams besot. 

Still flounder in the swales of Thought. 

47 



THE BLUEBIRD 



Ah, give me of that simpler joy, 

That sweet estate when girl and boy 

In freedoms play, bereft of care, 

With youths' bright flowers scattered there. 

Could I retain that simpler grace 
Of childhood's manner, form and face 
And see with eyes unsullied, through 
The wonders of my dreams, come true. 

Not in the jungles of Desire, 
Not in the race for Gold and Power 
Not in the clash of arms nor blare 
Of brazen trumpets' bold fanfare. 

A golden chalice holdest thou 
Before my lips to quaff — my brow 
Thy gentle hands doth press 
And soothe the pain with kind caress. 

Oh, Happiness indeed, untaught. 
By Fashion's sterile hand unwrought, 
The subtle wafture from thy breast 
Now rends the Veil — at last, at last. 



48 



WHITHER 



WHITHER 

Has the glory of the sunset hue 

No significance except 
A momentary fascination 

In rose and gold and blue — 
A wonder work of a Master Hand 

Endowed with living glow, 
Spread on the canvas of the seas 

And framed from land to land? 

I wonder, as I stand a-top 

The loftiest vantage-point 
And drink the luscious goblet full 

Till not a single drop 
Remains to cloy the quickened sense 

When the Spirit shall have fled 
That gave it color, life and form, 

But left its recompense. 

No purer draught from Nature's store, 

With bounteous treasures filled. 
Than this deep draught of golden wine. 

'Tis quaffed, and lo! before 
My vision steals the roseate glow 

Of evening, ere the sun 
Its golden rimmed wall of sea 

Has scarcely simk below. 

The aureate wreath in the western sky 

Resolves into limpid blue; 
Only the mountains, tier on tier, 

In silent grandeur lie — 
Grim guardians of the Gates of Night 

Whose mystic depths engulf 
Their rugged ramparts, run to earth 

Beyond the pale of sight. 

49 



WHITHER 



Friends, can all this splendor be 

But a riff in the Sands of Time, 
As a feather soars on the billowy air 

Till the wind dies out to sea? 
Does the silent tear down the mantling cheek 

Tell of the heart's warm glow 
As it sinks itself in the infinite depths 

Of beauteous Nature? Speak! 

Ye lovers of the sky and sea. 

Tell me, can such thing be 
As the eternal nothingness of all 

That seems so beautiful to me; 
Nor aught of thine, nor aught of mine 

We treasure ere depart 
Shall change a hair's-breadth in the Book 

Of Destiny — one line? 

'Golden Gate," March 30, 1912. 



50 



BY THE HAND OF MAN 



BY THE HAND OF MAN 

In troubled dream, another vision came 

Of whirling through the vast and treach'rous space 

Of Night. With thundrous roar, 

We clave the blinding nebulae of mist; 

As lightning, flashed the suns of other spheres, 

And still the Arrow drives in sinuous flight 

Into the midnight gloom, its guiding star 

Two lines of steel, hung on the western rim. 

The Bow has spoken; still the Arrow drives 
Unspent. As fiery steed, it chafes the bit. 
With restless pantings and snorting fire, 
In ever longer strides it reaches out 
Consuming distance in its ravenous speed. 
Is there no helm or helmsman to this steed 
All bone and sinew, wrought of steel and fire, 
This mighty maddened Titan of the Night? 

The vision changed; a gallant company 

Of souls fare westward. In oblivion 

Of sleep they dream of peaceful woodlands, 

Storied halls. Doth hear, fair sleeper. 

The roar and grind beneath thy downy bed? 

Doth see the hand of Death clutch at thy throat, 

With baffled shriek return and ever again 

To wreak his vengeful purpose? 

Does the Arrow ever waver in its flight? 

What if the Bow had snapped, or hand that drew 

The powerful thongs had weakened at the last. 

But no. 

The ever watchful eye of Genius holds 
The flame tipped Arrow to its gleaming path. 
Upon its pulse, the skillful hand is laid 
That curbs its restless wayward spirit's might 
And cheats Death's spectre of its choicest prey. 

51 . 



BY THE HAND OF MAN 



I see the guiding Genius at the helm; 
The lurid Vast his piercing eye foretells. 
Mid teeming ruin and destruction schooled, 
He whistles jauntily away the hours 
Of Death, swift Death, and as the morn 
Its first rose tinted hues has spread. 
He brings the panting Titan to its goal. 

Dost thou, fair traveller, ere think, 
When restless with thy petty strife, 
Of him who holds thy priceless life 
Within his hand, as snow drops sink 
And melt and vanish? 
To him, tis loss or gain erased; 
To you, grim cataclysms faced — 
Beware the spending of thy Hour. 

Overland. 



52 



HOMEWARD BOUND 



HOMEWARD BOUND 



If ever, when the day rolls 'round 
To cross again this continent, 

Thou feelst the weight of heavy hours 
And sleep invites to sweet content, 

May mem'ries rise of other days 

When this same continent you crossed 

Within that wee corral of friends 
Together by good fortune tossed. 

Thou 'It chuckle at the scene revived 
When Finnegan, "Our Hero" prim, 

Didst roll his proud and shapely form 
Upon the floor as in babydom. 

When modest Richards through the chair 
His animated form didst thread, 

And blinking Steiger's comely bulk 
Performed the light fantastic tread. 

When mighty Bivens found a point 
Upon that treach'rous shaky floor 

To balance him while speeding through 
The air at seventy miles an hour. 

And Uncle Crusty Brown didst strain 
His face all out of shape, and why? — • 

To keep from smiling or from speech 
While cruel minutes ambled by. 

But even when, with blushing pride, 
Did Jones recite the homely lay 

Of Mary and her lovely lamb, 
There still remains one memory: 

53 



HOMEWAIID BOUND 



Supremest moment — when the lot 
To proud "Superba" lastly fell; 

Weep not that in the hour of need 
No guardian angel came to tell 

Poor Handlon of his P's and Q's 

To start his valedictory; 
That 'neath the spell of woman's smiles 

Fell our hero of Compartment "A." * 



Whene'er the scales of Justice tilt 

So far aside that ne'er again 
Their primal equipoise it seems 

Can scarcely hope to soon regain; 

'Tis then that circumstances seem 
To find a way to have things changed. 

Unlooked for pitfalls gape and yawn — 
'Tis then the Fates have been avenged. 

♦Gamblers' paradise 





LAKE IN 
GOLDEN GATE PARK 



